A year and a day
by Vanessa Crispin
Summary: Before she is queen of the dolls, Clara has to be promised for a year and a day. Because this is not to be rushed, this marriage between the clockmakers son and the young ballerina. The future monarchs of a kingdom that nobody can ever visit while awake.
1. Chapter 1

Before she is queen of the dolls, Clara has to be promised for a year and a day.

Because this is not to be rushed, this marriage between the clockmakers son and the young ballerina. The future monarchs of a kingdom that nobody can ever visit while awake.

But they share a connection, so strong now that her eyes need not be closed for her to see him. He appears to her like a ghost sometimes, a figment of her imagination that watches her from afar, playing at the piano during the midday hours in january – christmas over, but the frost still making the windows of their large house dim and spiderwebbed. Pieces of sugar can still be found in the bottom of the glass cabinet, glittering in the light. Her playing at the piano is hardly perfect, but she has been taught well.

Her emotions have always been at the forefront of everything, especially when she dances. Now when she plays the piano, the songs she has memorized during her many obligatory lessons no longer sound repetative or forced, but simply flow from her fingertips – like the music lives in her hands.

When her parents comment on it, telling her what a perfect lady she is maturing into, she smiles but says nothing. _He is clapping after her performance, but it makes no sound – not even audible to her ears._

Meanwhile, her golden hair has stopped growing.


	2. Chapter 2

In febuary, the snow begins to melt away. But the sky at night is just the same, turning black and unforgiving. School has already started once more, but she still has to wear her thickest winter coat when going outside.

She is having trouble with writing a particular word on paper in class, when she feels, rather than sees his hand guiding her -righting the motion of her writing to a delicate, swirling script, correcting what she did wrong. His hand on hers is lighter than a feather, but the one tugging at one of her short braids is not.

Turning around in her seat, at first she thinks it was the cruel boy behind her, the one who thinks he can hurt her by calling her childish names. But he is sleeping with his head on the desk.

He can be playful, this prince of hers.


	3. Chapter 3

"Do you remember your name?" she asks one night, when he is just a nutcracker again and she is in her long white nightgown, sitting on the floor of her bedroom. It is a dream of course, because the curse is already broken.

It is early march, and the tree outside her window is going to be cut down because of a deceise. It will look like it did when it was a sapling, yet still maintain its true age.

The Nutcracker is playfighting against one of her toys, an old teddy bear with one eye missing, and turns around to face her when she asks her question. He paused for a moment, his eyes darting around the dark room, only lit by the sparse light of the moon.

"I think the curse ate it up." he says after a while, not really sounding sad about it, just resigned. Teddy wanders off, bored of the fight, instead choosing to curl up in Clara's lap and fall asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

They have never talked about it before, perhaps because it's so obvious.

Many kings and queens first marry not out of love, but out of duty. Such is the usual way. But the prince and she are different. But she realizes that they have actually never said those three words yet. It is an unusually quiet week that passes. She can sit in the sunlight outside and hear the birds now, but has not catched a glimpse of _him_ in weeks.

Though he had warned her that he was going to be busy – he was still a prince after all, and between the two of them, he was the only one so closely tied to their future kingdom. He had to stay there most of the time, to preform the duties of a prince because she couldn't do her part – not yet.

But she misses his mild voice, the vast blue of his eyes and his sympathy. She is a harder person, much less forgiving than he. Perhaps it is because she is still young, _and will remain that way forever._

But another part of her knows that she will never be whole without him.

April passes by almost like a punishment, even though everything around her grows and comes alive.


	5. Chapter 5

Spring is celebrated in May, and soon it will be her birthday. They light bonfires in town, to frighten away the ghosts of winter and to welcome the newfound warmth in the air.

When he comes, he surprises her by appearing like he did the first time, as Drosselmeier's nephew from Nuremberg. It is an hour before dinner when he arrives with his uncle in tow, and her family happily greets them, unknowing that it is the nutcracker come to life. She is frozen on the stairs on her way down, looking on as he greets her parents and her siblings with the careful, precise manners she remembers so well. His ebony hair is longer now, the braid reaching the middle of his back.

She must have made a sound where she stands, because his gaze quickly finds her, looking past the people standing around him. There is something almost feverish in his eyes that is unfamiliar, and he refuses to even blink as she descends the stairs, approaching him. His doll's eyes (for that is what they are) shine, and it is still a funny thing that he is taller now than she.

When she holds out her hand for him to bow over, he remains for a long moment just holding it, staring at her. It is almost as if he has become the old nutcracker, and it is only when she clears her throat with some amusement that he blinks abruptly, quickly bowing over her hand before standing. She giggles, though it makes her parents look at her with disapproval, her nutcracker smiles so wide that it threatens to cut his face in two.


	6. Chapter 6

June is for lovers, or so she has read in her older sisters romance novels – the ones that she keeps hidden under the bed. But Clara is not sure she agrees with that statement. Because for the first whole week of summer, prince and princess have been bickering like cats and dogs.

It began when, after Clara had tripped and fallen into the lake nearby her family's estate after chasing her brother fritz, and broken her ankle in the process. Her foot was put in a cast and for a short while, not allowed to leave the house as her ankle healed. In her dreams, the nutcracker had wept when he had seen that she was injuried and she laughed. It was a mistake – it was the dream. The land of the dolls was often full of laughter, and it was hard not to join in.

He would bite his lip and cast his eyes down, a bitter taste in her mouth as the tea they had been drinking dissolved into nothingness.


	7. Chapter 7

Anger is not what he feels, she can tell. Clara knows that whatever she does or says, he will never leave her. But he has avoided her these last few weeks, that much she is sure of. Then, she finds him a warm summer evening, after having excused herself from a party her parents are hosting. The house is filled to the brim with guests, and she knows that she will not find him among the other adults.

She looks like a piece of melting snow, the tulle covering her blue satin dress creating a soft glow.

She wanders to the lake, where a family of swans have taken up residence since the early spring. The water is still and calm, the sound of early morning birds starting even now, because the warmth in the air has everyone confused and wide awake.

It is with a small gasp that she sees him, leaning against a tree, looking out at the lake. He seems unaware of her presence, completely still except for his chest that moves with each breath. He is wearing a uniform in muted green colors, his familiar black boots and kid gloves. But there is no hat, leaving his dark hair exposed. Just as she was that first time that she saw him, waiting for her under the christmas tree, Clara cannot help but feel like she is drawn to him – to turn away from the sight of him is almost unthinkable.

She steps on a loose bransch, which snaps easily under her weight. He slowly turns his head in her direction, blinking rapidly. He moves forward slightly as he sees who she is, the blue of his eyes piercing. And he looks at her like everything is going to be alright, like the mere presence of _her_ is what makes it all possible. Like _she_ is the one that is magical, a christmas present just for him. And just like that, her guilt overflows and breaks.

"Clara."

Her blonde curls shake as she starts to cry, her hands covering her face. Oh, she has behaved so badly towards him!

"I'm so sorry Nutcracker. Please..." she manages between tears. He is at her side in an instant, gloved thumbs wiping at her tears. She couldn't hug him before, when he was made out of wood – but now she clings to him, as his thin arms wrap around her securely. There is a real heartbeat beneath his ribs, and she closes her eyes to memorize its steady rhythm.

"It's alright, sweetheart. "


	8. Chapter 8

Everyone is in such a hurry in August – and her friends from school start complaining about the end of summer. An evening with fireworks are held every year around this time, and the farmers out in the country celebrate the harvest.

But to Clara, things like time and hurrying has stopped to matter as much as they did before. She has not grown an inch since christmas eve in height, yet she has still matured in ways her classmates will not.

"Will I turn into a doll, when I am queen?" she asks Marie, one of her dearest friends in the kingdom of the dolls. A brasch and forthright toy she may be, but she has never lied. They are sitting on the banks of the red glancing lake, the smell of roses lingering in the air. This is another dream, because as of yet it is the only way Clara can visit her future kingdom.

Marie has thick, black doll's lashes that look almost cruel – but they suit her character well enough. When she looks at Clara, her dark brows pull down and she splashes her feet in the pink water, her long brown skirt getting wet.

"Maybe, I'm not really sure you know. It depends on what you wish." she finally says, looking down at the water with a bored expression on her face as Clara hangs onto her every word.

"What I wish?" Clara asks, confused. Marie sighs and rolls her eyes.

"The prince only became real because you made it so, remember that."


	9. Chapter 9

September is a month when several things happen all at once.

It all starts with a nightmare. She is trapped in a maze and the mouse king is trying to get her – stumbling, his heads cut off, his body charges after her, ruby red droplets of blood staining the ground. There is so much fog that Clara cannot see where she is going, and she is all alone. There is an icy chill in the air, not like in winter, but when one is sick. Just when she finds herself trapped with nowhere to run, she is woken up by a pair of hands shaking her.

His worried face is all she sees in the dark, so close to her own – but he does not call out her name for fear of waking the household. She is breathing fast, the only sound in the room. He lingers for a moment there, brushing her blonde hair away from her face. Something else, another emotion crosses his face as he does this, something intense. His hands are bare of gloves. Then he leans away from her, sighing as he does. The prince gives her a small smile, adjusting the covers around her

"It was just a dream."

There is a sorrow in his eyes that never completely goes away. As if his eyes might not be as blue if it wasn't for that. But this is the first time that she sees it so clearly. Wonders if she might ever help it go away, or if it is part of him now.


	10. Chapter 10

He starts to unravel to her slowly, and she starts to see why the sadness is so embedded in him.

In a dream, she finds herself in the throne room of the gingerbread castle. But it is not at all like she remembers – full of light and joy. It is still beautiful in the quiet, and the interior still sparkle of spun sugar and the furniture made out of candied fruits and caramel shine. But it is dark now, and maybe it is because the sky outside tells her that it is nighttime. But Clara can feel it in the air – someone is causing this darkness – the creeping shadows in the corners of the cavernous room, the lasting echoes of her footsteps.

She finds the prince sitting in one of the thrones, hunched over with his face hidden by shadows. His throne makes her think of the deepest winter, its surface covered with white sugar glaze and silver buttons. It is a stark contrast to his red uniform, the same scarlet shade as blood.

Approaching him on silent feet, she stands next to the throne and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Nutcracker, what is wrong? Please, tell me." she implores softly, staring down at him with wide, worried eyes. Unlike him, her eyes are the same color as spring and sunlight. When he looks up at her, some of the light finds him and he breathes in, relieved that she is there.

What she can never know is how they have the same nightmares, the only difference is that in his dreams, the blood from the slain mouse king makes a trail back to him. That was only one death, and as king, he will have to be content with many more on his conscience. How each death, no matter who suffers, hurts him irrevocably, like needle pricks that never heal.

But with her beside him as queen, this hidden pain is nothing. He will gladly pick up his sword if it means that he can protect her from harm. And he feels strangely loyal to his future kingdom, a kind of loyalty, once it settles in his heart, he knows he can never betray.

So when his Clara asks him what is wrong, under these circumstances, nothing is. But he does not want to lie either. Slowly, he stands from his seat and their eyes lock. As they do, the lights around them brighten, the shadows disappear little by little.

"The sadness gets the best of me sometimes, I'm afraid. But I'm glad that you found me here."

At that, Clara smiles and rushes towards him – enveloping him in a tight hug which he gladly accepts.


	11. Chapter 11

As autumn leaves start to litter the trees outside her window and school starts again in october, there is talk of witches in the trees, evil cats and the terrors of the night.

And as a consequence, an evil suddenly appears in that land between the waking world and the dreams. It is not a mouse, nor a rat – but a witch who collects souls of dolls and other toys. There are many casualties from her beloved kingdom, toys who lie in heaps like corpses at the gate.

The witch is cruel, and cannot be reasoned with. The souls keeps her looking young, while inside she is nothing but rot. But Clara, princess now of a kingdom that relies on her, strikes a bargain with her during a dramatic apperance at their castle.

Because if Clara has learned anything in the past year, it is that villains like to brag about themselves – and sometimes, that can work to her advantage. She sits in the throne meant just for her, feeling a strange power surge through her, making her light green eyes sparkle. She narrows her eyes as the witch before her, and just like that, she knows just what to say.

"But surely, you are not _the most_ powerful witch in the world." she utters, and the witch howls with mocking laughter.

"You silly nit, of course I am! I am the most powerful one in existance!" she exclaims, throwing her long dark hair over one shoulder in a vain, confident gesture. But Clara only raises one eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Really? Then surely you would be able to fly across the gap between the west wing of the castle to the north without using your broom?" she asks, making everyone among the court start to whisper amongst themselves.

The witch goes quiet and sour, her beautiful face betraying whats underneath. Black hair bristling, she senses that defeat is at hand. But she is the most powerful witch, after all.

"Hah, of course I can –but the question is, can you do the same?" the witch asks, just as Clara expected.

"Of course." she replies, and now there are several gasps among the dolls watching the conversation unfold – but strangely, the nutcracker remains silent. The witch is gnashing her teeth by now, mystified by the steely calm of this childlike princess who should know nothing of magic.

"Hogwash!" She screeches in disbelief, as Clara decends her throne to approach her, hands behind her back. From afar she looks like a tiny star, with her long golden hair framing her face, her nightdress trimmed with silver thread. Something about the sight of her alone has the witch recoiling backwards.

"Tell you what – I'll race you to the other end of the castle. If I win, you leave my kingdom and my people alone forever."

"And if I win?"

"If I cannot fly, my death will be your prize. Is that satisfactory?"

* * *

Soon, the news of the challenge spreads through the kingdom and beforelong, dolls and toys alike are gathered around the castle grounds to watch their princess prove that she can indeed fly. Some are already cheering, confident that she will be able to do it – while others look up to the sky with fear in their shiny doll eyes. It turns into quite an event, almost like one of the october festivals Clara remembers attending as a young child.

The only one who is not quite as enthusiastic is the prince. He has been staring a hole into the back of the witches head as if he wants to put his fist through it, his body on edge whenever she has made an apperance. He makes sure never to stray far from Clara's side, not trusting the royal guards enough to keep her safe.

But most of all, he is distraught over the prospect of losing her. This is not something he says to her, and really doesn't need to – his usually pristine hair is mussed underneath his soldier cap, and just a few minutes ago he broke a gingerbread table in half. He keeps glancing at her – eyes the same shade as too thin ice on a lake, breakable and cold.

When she puts her hands on his cheeks and leans in, their foreheads colliding, she can smell chestnuts on his breath.

"You will never lose me, nutcracker." she whispers solemnly.

"There is something you're not telling me, isn't there?"

"Maybe. Just trust me."

* * *

The castle is built on top of a tall green mountain, split into two parts down the middle. There is a long bridge that connects them, but beyond that, there is a long fall down, should one step over any balcony railing or walk over the edge of the small castle park facing the bridge.

The same way another king perished a second time, Clara remembers with a shudder as she stands on the very edge, looking down into the abyss, at the river that flows at the very bottom.

Nutcracker trusts her, and even though it pains him to watch her risk her very life, he cannot look away.

Beside her, the witch is watching her shaking frame, cackling and pointing at her like she has already won.

But Clara is trying not to think about that. Her eyes are on the top of the glittering castle towers, where white mourning doves made out of spun sugar like to perch. She has seen them only in passing before but now, it is all she can focus on.

It is just a theory still, and while she might not understand the reasons behind it, the kingdom of the dolls might not have existed at all if somebody hadn't imagined it first. The dolls she has played with so many times, their voices and their smiles all started with her. If Clara wants to defeat the witch, she has to use the only thing that the evil crow does not have.

She saw how the prince transformed the castle into its dark and gloomy counterpart that night. Since then, she has wondered about it. And the answer is absurdly simple ; the kingdom of the dolls is flexible, appearing as however they see it. But more than that, it is tied to the magic of make belief, a place where your imagination has power. And with her, that power has always been near - a tangible thing she could almost touch.

That is why when she steps of the side of the cliff as the race begins, her body starting to fall, Clara only closes her eyes tightly and thinks about flying on the air currents on strong wings that will carry her where she needs to be. She can hear gasps and screams as she continues to fall, but they are not her own.

A jolt of pain hits her at first, like lightning striving to break her in two. It hurts like a knife through flesh, and she lets out a startling scream.

When she opens her eyes once more, her feet have not touched the ground, nor is she falling anymore.

* * *

The witch is still laughing high above her, but a moment later as she soars by, the laughter abruptly stops. The witch has conjured a few nearby peach colored clouds to fly on, but they are sparse and slow.

Claras shoulders ache, much like how your legs would ache after running for a long time. But she is flying through the air, a pair of grey-brown wings now emerging from her back. She can see them in the reflections of the large castle windows, gasping at the sight of them.

They have muscles that have never been used, and it takes all her strength to keep herself steady. But despite the toll it is taking on her body, it is worth it when she looks back over her shoulder at the witch, desperate to catch up to her.

Far below them, the cheers of her people are steadily growing in volume as they realize what is happening.

The mourning doves have flown down from the towers and begun picking at the witches face, poking holes and eating at the purple clouds underneath her, much to her annoyance.

"Fly away, shoo! " The witch keeps yelling, to no avail. But she is gaining speed. The doves fly around them in circles now, agitated. They still have to circle around the other half of the castle and back. The witch manages to sneak up behind her, reaching out a hand to push Clara roughly out of the way and so she tumbles around in the air, not being able to tell which way is up or down. She begins falling.

Below,the crowd watching are still all yelling words of encouragement, cheering and screaming, confetti being thrown into the air, singling down over the edge and down, down, down into the waters below.

Nutcracker is watching the skies, and has not taken a breath since the race started. He was a doll for a centuries before, and has good enough practise not to breathe at all. He has already decided that, should Clara fall to her death, he will turn back into one and stay that way forever, silently entombed and forgotten once more.

After what seems like an eternity, she finds her bearings once more, body righting itself in the air as she falls. The doves have followed her down, circling her with concern. She's too tired to continue, the weight of her wings are heavy and it hurts. But she finds the currents in the air again, and the witch is not far from the finish line.

It will hurt a little bit more, and that is alright.

* * *

She reaches the finishing line a few moments before the witch, her wings giving way, not allowing her to land safely as she crashes to the marble floor in a heap. There is a resounding, scratchy scream from behind her as she lands. Clara thinks that it must be the angry cry of the witch, realizing that she has lost.

But as she turns around on the floor to look, the witch is nowhere to be seen. Nutcracker is standing above her protectively, his sword drawn, which glints in the light innocently. It is also dripping scarlet, and his breathing is far too uneven, his head bent down to look over the edge.

What Clara did not see from behind, was that the witch had drawn a weapon of her own, hurtling towards her with the intent to turn her into dust. They all watch as the witch falls to her death, her figure turning into a small, spidery thing before finally hitting the red glancing lake below.

The end of october is spent in bed with a fever at home, as her little brother carves a new pumpkin for each time he has to get up and fetch his big sister another cup of tea.


End file.
